‘They have to wear these mob caps, I suppose. Health and safety?’

  ‘Aye. She worked in the kitchens during the morning, served the dinners then cleared up. Not a bad job if you can exist on the pay. Starting at ten and finishing before the school bell rings in the afternoon.’

  ‘She must have had another job, surely?’ Molly frowned. ‘Nobody could pay the sort of rent that landlord was charging unless they had a separate income. And her mother mentioned designer shoes.’

  ‘I’ve checked to see if she had anything from the social. No widow’s pension ’cos she was never married. No invalidity benefit or anything like that. So, yes, our Celia must have made money some other way than working for the education authority.’

  Molly sat pondering. ‘Her bank account was healthy enough but every deposit was a cash transaction. She must have been working somewhere to get cash in hand.’

  ‘On the game?’ Davie suggested.

  ‘Could be. Might explain the hostility from her mother. And why her timekeeping at the school kitchen was so erratic.’

  ‘Did the landlord pass any remark?’

  Molly shook her head. ‘I don’t think he took any interest in his tenants except for the weekly rent being paid on time. Good thought, though. Maybe we should ask around the other tenants in that building. See if Celia brought visitors home on a regular basis. It wouldn’t be the first time that a sex worker was bumped off by one of her punters,’ she added darkly.

  Davie Giles blinked and leaned forward, biting his lip as a thought came to him. ‘The other two women … ’ he began. ‘Is there any chance they might have had a secret sex life?’

  Molly snorted. ‘Like Belle de Jour, you mean?’ Then, as Davie frowned at her, she laid a hand over his. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scoff. Human nature is crazy enough for us to imagine that sort of thing but I really don’t think the information we have about Carolyn Kane matches that sort of profile, do you?’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘Just a daft notion. Anyway, let me tell you what else I found.’ He slid a sheaf of papers across the table. There’s a list of all the members of staff, teaching and ancillary. One PE teacher who is peripatetic, same with the music teacher. They both cover several primary schools in the area. And, yes, they are both away on holiday with their respective families.’

  ‘Apart from the school secretary … ’

  ‘Mrs Bell.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Mrs Bell. Who else is actually at home right now?’

  Davie counted them off on his fingers. ‘Most of the kitchen staff who all live close by, the janitor and the young lad who works as a handyman but helps out the janitor as and when required.’

  Molly sipped her chocolate thoughtfully. ‘My money would be on the other dinner ladies,’ she said at last. ‘Bet they had a good gossip about our missing woman. Tell you what, let’s see which of them are at home this afternoon and if they fancy a wee visit from the pair of us? Lorimer doesn’t need us in till the meeting at six. What d’you reckon?’

  Davie gave her a nod and a grin. It was a long time since he had attended a state primary school but he still remembered with affection the big buxom figure of Mrs McAllister, the dinner lady who had dished out second helpings to hungry little boys. She’d been a wise old bird, he thought. And if there was someone of that ilk in Bankbrae Primary maybe they would find out something to help push along this case.

  ‘Yes? Oh, come in,’ the woman stepped aside and ushered Davie and Molly into the neat semi-detached villa around the corner from Bankbrae Primary School. Isobel Malone, the senior dinner lady, closed the door behind them. ‘Just made a pot of tea,’ she said. ‘There’s coffee if you prefer that, though,’ she added, waving a hand towards a glass door. ‘Sitting room’s in here,’ she said, opening the door and letting out a small white dog that began yapping and jumping up at the two strangers.

  ‘Toots! Stop that at once!’ Mrs Malone commanded and the little creature slunk away, tail between its legs.

  ‘Sorry about that. She gets excited whenever there’s a new person to see. I’ll just make sure she stays in the kitchen.’

  Molly was about to say it was okay but Davie frowned at her and she remembered the police officer’s allergy to pet hair. If the sitting room was full of stray hairs, Davie would be sneezing all the way back to Helen Street.

  Moments later Isobel Malone bustled in to join them, perched on the edge of the nearest armchair and leaned forward, eager to begin.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me about Celia, that’s right, isn’t it?’

  Molly smiled winningly. ‘Yes. As I said on the phone, we would appreciate any background information you can give us on Ms Gemmell.’

  Isobel Malone narrowed her eyes. ‘Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it? I can tell, you know,’ she added, shaking her head slowly. ‘Always said that one would come to a bad end.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Molly asked.

  ‘No better than she should be,’ Mrs Malone sniffed, ‘if you get my meaning.’ She looked up sharply. ‘Too interested in men, I’d say. And wanted all the things that money could buy without having to work for it.’

  ‘But she was working in Bankbrae, in the kitchens?’ Davie put in.

  ‘Aye, a wee extra on the side, no doubt, plus whatever she was claiming from the Social.’

  ‘Celia Gemmell had no benefits,’ Molly told the woman. ‘Are you saying that she had another job that nobody knew anything about?’

  ‘If you call it that.’ Isobel Malone looked down at her teacup, her cheeks beginning to redden. ‘There’s a name for women like her, you know. Not a nice one,’ she added.

  ‘Have you any proof that Ms Gemmell was a sex worker?’ Davie asked bluntly.

  The woman squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Well, just what she said, you know. Getting in late for work then smirking in that way she had, hinting she’d been kept late in bed by her latest fellow, would be splashing the cash the following weekend, that sort of thing.’ She looked from one of the police officers to the other. ‘Everybody knew what was going on, of course.’

  ‘Even the teaching staff?’ Molly asked.

  Mrs Malone made a face. ‘They all thought she was the cat’s whiskers, so they did. No, I don’t think any of them had any idea about her. Leastwise, none of us ever mentioned it to them. Not the sort of talk you want to spread about, know what I mean?’

  Molly hid a smile. She knew exactly what the woman meant. The gossip would be confined to the ancillary staff, no doubt, though surely it would have been only a matter of time before the story crept into the staffroom? Had that been why Celia had trawled the internet looking for information about dismissals?

  ‘Something else I want to ask, Mrs Malone,’ Molly began. ‘Was there anybody employed at Bankbrae who was overstepping some sort of line? Behaving in a way that might result in them being sacked?’

  ‘Other than Celia?’ Mrs Malone shook her head, a cynical look on her face. ‘No, dear, we’re a close-knit bunch of ladies. All hard workers. And we have a good janitor in Jack McCormick. The young lad, Jamie, fair pulls his weight as well. No … ’ She shook her head again, picking up her teacup and taking a sip. ‘Celia was the only one that might have been given the heave-ho. If she hadn’t pushed off by herself.’ She gave Molly and Davie a quizzical look. ‘Why all these questions anyway? Has she done something? Got herself in a bit o’ bother?’

  Molly smiled blandly. ‘We want to locate Ms Gemmell in connection with an ongoing case,’ she explained. ‘As far as we know Celia Gemmell has not committed any crime. And I would appreciate it if you made that clear to your colleagues.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Isobel Malone clattered her teacup in its saucer, spilling a little tea in the process.

  It was, Molly thought, as they made to leave, as if the woman couldn’t wait to lift the phone and begin to tell the other dinner ladies about her visit from Police Scotland and the inquiries about Celia, the good-looking woman who had disappeared so suddenly a year before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The morning was grey and damp when they set off from Rufflets, the splash of tyres through wayside puddles and the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers making Maggie feel sleepy. An east-coast haar had settled over the fields, blotting out any view beyond the still-bare trees that lined the road. Everything was a wash of pale light but for the beech hedges and leaf litter on the woodland floor, its rusty brown the colour of a pheasant’s wing. There were few cars on this country road and all, like Ivy, had their headlights on, making them appear suddenly through the gloom and disappear again into the mist. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed twin spots of light, one vehicle tailing them, careful not to draw too close in the murky morning.

  Maggie closed her eyes, drifting off in a half sleep, her thoughts on Gibby, her little ghost boy, wondering how he would feel flying above the world on a day such as this.

  *

  Behind them, watching intently, the driver made sure to keep his speed down, knowing the way they would take, anxious to meet the woman once again at the next stop on her book tour.

  The queue had come to an end, the last book handed over, and Maggie was busy signing the extra copies for the bookstore when a shadow fell across her table.

  She looked up to see a middle-aged man wearing a beige raincoat stooping over her, briefcase in one hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ she began, smiling up at him. ‘Thought everyone had gone.’ She looked but there was no book in the man’s hand. He leaned towards her then gave her a sympathetic smile.

  ‘I heard about the stalking,’ he said quietly. ‘That must have been a horrible experience for you.’

  Maggie felt her cheeks flushing. ‘Oh, to tell you the truth I think it might simply have been a schoolboy prank, one of the hazards of being a teacher,’ she joked.

  ‘Perhaps you need someone to keep an eye on you, Margaret.’ He smiled and gave a low chuckle.

  She opened her mouth to tell the man to call her Maggie then closed it again. After all, to the wider world she was now Margaret Lorimer, her Sunday name written in bold letters across her book cover.

  ‘Here.’ He passed Maggie a business card and she looked at the writing:

  CHRISTOPHER G. STEVENSON

  Security with Discretion

  There was an email address and a telephone number but no website. Maggie gave a small frown. ‘Did somebody send you to see me?’ she asked, immediately wondering if Bill had pulled some strings in the private sector.

  ‘Let’s just say I will be close by for the remainder of your tour,’ he told her. ‘Look on me as your guardian angel.’ He gave an avuncular chuckle and smiled more warmly at her. ‘Nobody will notice me in the audiences but I’ll be there, making sure you’re safe. Just till you get home again. I suspect you’re the sort of lady who loves being at home. Settled and content to be where you feel happiest.’

  Maggie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He must have been in the audience during that last question-and-answer session. Somebody had asked her ‘What’s your favourite place?’ and she had thought for a moment, wondering if the answer ought to be one of the stops on her tour. But then she’d replied on impulse, ‘Home’s where you feel the most content. Where all the good memories are.’

  And yet, by the way he was looking at her it was as if this man with the gentle voice already knew her well. But then, perhaps it was his business to find out about whoever he had been sent to protect?

  ‘Does Ivy know … ?’

  His manner changed a little and Maggie saw a frown cross his face. ‘She doesn’t need to be bothered about this,’ he told her. ‘If she asks any questions, then I am just another fan.’ The smile returned and Maggie found herself drawn to the man. He was not what she imagined a security officer would look like, his salt-and-pepper moustache and thinning hair giving him the look of someone who was approaching retirement rather than filling his days with the cut and thrust of security work. If she had conjured up a guardian angel, then he could not have looked less like this Christopher Stevenson. But then, a little voice told her, surely that was the whole point of remaining in the background, fitting into a crowded room? Perhaps, beneath the guise of a punter attending a book signing was a man with some expertise in martial arts, for all she knew? Appearance and reality, surely she ought to know about that illusion by now?

  Maggie picked up her handbag and pulled out her purse, opening it up and fitting the card into a slot next to her supermarket reward cards. She did not notice the security man’s keen eyes on the purse, or the way his eyes flicked across her own details of name, address and phone numbers, beneath a rectangle of clear plastic.

  ‘You didn’t see me today,’ he reminded her with a wink, then, laying a gloved hand on top of hers, he turned and walked away, leaving Maggie with a strange mixture of feelings. In one way she felt a tinge of outrage that Bill should have sent this man to babysit her, but on the other, surely her husband was doing his best to protect her from any more aggravation?

  He was trembling by the time he reached the car park and flopped down into the driver’s seat. For a moment back there he had seen these lovely eyes clouded with suspicion. The cards were good quality, though, the print shop making a decent job for him. Perhaps it had been his sudden appearance that had so startled her? Poor, dear Margaret. How awful for her to have lived so long with this policeman, the sort of person that never trusted another soul. When she was his he would rid her of any worries, any lingering doubts.

  It would be perfect. She would be perfect! He closed his eyes, imagining the cottage with its windows lit up again, lamps winking by the door. Once this book tour was over he would return to his old life, just long enough to make arrangements, have the place done up properly. Then he could let go of all the strain of those past years, watching and waiting for the right person who would make him complete.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Lorimer asked, his ear pressed to his mobile, a sudden longing to hear Maggie’s voice.

  ‘Great – we have plenty more signings to get through but we should be home in another three or four days,’ she told him.

  ‘I miss you,’ he said softly. ‘And so does Chancer,’ he added.

  ‘Well, no need to worry about us. Got my own personal guardian angel watching over me, haven’t I?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Lorimer replied. He would hardly have called Ivy Thornton a guardian angel, but if Maggie was getting on that well with the woman, who was he to complain?

  ‘Anyway, enough about me,’ Maggie said briskly. ‘Besides, there’s very little to tell, different shops, different audiences, but it’s becoming a sort of routine and I’ll probably forget most of the names of folk we’ve been meeting by the time I’m home. How’s the case?’

  Lorimer stifled a sigh. If she had been home they would have sat side by side late into the evening, discussing some of the things he could share with her. ‘Molly Newton’s shaping up well,’ he told her. ‘She and Davie Giles seem to have become a good partnership. Quite a lot of intelligence coming through from various sources but nothing big yet.’

  ‘It’ll come,’ Maggie assured him. ‘It always does.’

  Lorimer bit his lip, glad for once that his wife could not see the expression on his face. Somewhere out there was a killer, a man responsible for the deaths of at least two people, women who looked in many ways like his own precious Maggie. He gave an involuntary shudder.

  ‘Are you still there?’ she asked. ‘It’s gone very quiet.’

  ‘Still here,’ he answered gruffly. ‘Counting the days till you’re home. Glad you’ve got company, though,’ he added. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you, too,’ she whispered.

  He knew then, Maggie smiled to herself. The company that Bill referred to must be that nice Christopher Stevenson. Oh, well, she could put up with it for Bill’s sake, though a small part of her still felt a little peeved at the idea that he thought she was unable to look after herself.

  ‘Time for drinks.’ Ivy was there, her coat over the woman’s arm.

  ‘Good,’ Maggie replied, getting to her feet. For once she was glad the evening’s talk was over and they could relax together in their latest hotel. The image of a warm fire near the bar area came to mind as she shrugged into her coat. ‘Let’s go,’ she said with a grin. ‘Let’s see what cocktails are on the menu tonight.’

  It was late by the time he reached home, the day’s work continuing through the six o’clock meeting then that discussion with Giles and Newton regarding the missing woman. He had brought the team up to speed on Professor Dawson’s involvement though there had been a few sceptical glances cast in Lorimer’s direction as he had spoken about the possible link between the wellington boots and the chance of finding the woman’s body.

  The sky above him was two different colours, a burnt-orange streak hugging the treetops then a swathe of deepest blue above, the new moon the tiniest arc of white. There was a hint of frost in the air, too, though the day had been bright and the sun warm through the windows of his office that afternoon. Maggie had been travelling through the Kingdom of Fife and tomorrow would see her driving further afield, more signings in the various shops, she and Ivy enjoying the life of an author. It was good that they seemed to be getting on well, although he had not warmed towards the Thornton woman, for some reason. He shrugged as he closed the front door behind him and heard the familiar sound of Chancer meowing for his dinner.

  The old cat reared up and he stroked the tawny fur, tickling behind the cat’s ears.

  ‘Just you and me again, lad.’ Lorimer sighed as he strode into the kitchen and bent down to find a clean bowl in the kitchen cupboard. It had been another long day and, as he watched Chancer gobbling up the cat food, he realised how famished he was, not having had time to stop for lunch.